Wife of Deceit
by Darthishtar
Summary: The love story of Senator Palpatine.
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

It was a peculiarity of procedure that they placed each prisoner before a mirror before what was commonly referred to as "the exit interview." She did not know what the origin of the tradition was—perhaps some aggrieved and indignant noblewoman had demanded to go out looking her best—but it made one thing perfectly clear. While every person in this stylized hell had entered the same way and would meet death with the same model of military-issue blaster, they chose their last moments individually upon looking at the skeleton in that mirror.

The exit interview was equal parts fairy tale and horror holo. There were whispers among the condemned that they gave each person a single moment in which redemption was an option. In the midst of the gut-wrenching 'questionings' and the periodic beatings that lasted an indeterminate amount of time before they tired of screams or silence, they would ask a single question that would make all of the difference. One simply had to know how to answer.

In theory, that mirror forced every prisoner to decide if they would respond when they reached that moment. They would look on the sunken eyes, the hollowed cheeks and half-healed fractures and consider what they had done to earn this. They would stare into the hollows of their eye sockets, perhaps press a hand to the spot over their still-beating heart and decide whether or not they wanted to come back from this grave.

She did not know how many exit interviews would be conducted today. Sometimes, they would lose their fellows one at a time and would only notice that the person who met their gaze at roll call had disappeared. At other times, there were entire groups missing and those who remained would wonder whether they would replace those long gone. The alternative was unthinkable, but they all silently recognized the possibility that one day there would be no others to stand between them and death.

As it was, the walk from the cell to the interrogation was as solitary as the prisoners' day-to-day confinement. There were no guards visible in that long corridor, but there did not have to be any. There was no discernible way out and there was no way of knowing if there was something worth living for if they did manage to escape.

At the end of the corridor, a door was opened on silent, old-fashioned hinges by a single guard and she entered the utilitarian 'fresher. The guard closed the door and stood just as silently, for once not making any move to restrain her or command her time. She had already withstood the morning's chemical bath, so there was nothing to clean. Several grooming implements, such as a straight-edge razor and a hairbrush were provided, but nothing in the way of concealing agents or eyepaints. Perhaps it was too much that in a prison with only seven women, they might consider their minority population.

Once upon a lifetime, she would have had all the energy she needed to summon her vanity or find dignity in what she could do here. It was unlikely that they had anything that could restore her to some form of beauty. Her hair, once a dark coppery red, was instead brittle and dull. Even if she could part her cracked and ulcerated lips to smile, there would be no beauty in her decayed teeth. None of the lotions could cover the raw and peeling parts of her skin. Even her figure was brittle and shrunken, hunched inwards around the distension of her abdomen.

The best she could hope for was to be so silent that the interrogators lost interest quickly. Mercy was an unlikely possibility, but death would be the only cruel and welcome mercy that they knew of.

Instead of seeking comfort in concealment, she stared into the mirror, looking for something familiar there. When she found nothing, she continued to look, wondering if she would look just as haunted at the moment that the appointed guard pulled the trigger as she did now.

One thing was absolutely certain: she would remain silent until then.

She turned sluggishly away from her reflection and nodded at the guard with what was supposed to be an imperious expression rather than a slack look of resignation. He opened the door on the other side and let her pass.

She knew exactly what she could have expected under normal circumstances. She had been seized so many times upon entering this room so many times that the brutality of the gesture would have been both commonplace and tiring. After the first few times, she had forgotten to struggle. The guards would have thrown her into her place nonetheless, hoping that she would cower and beg for mercy in exchange for information. She had earned regular beatings for the simple fact that she was never sufficiently frightened for their tastes.

Today, she found her own way to the middle of the room and sat in the straight-backed chair that had caught her blood, sweat and tears on more than a few occasions. A pair of painful heartbeats later, the interrogator entered through the same door through which she had entered. Perhaps he had been curious as to what she had done to prepare herself for this.

She stared straight ahead, seeing nothing and knowing the first question. It was _always_ the first question.

"Do you think he will come for you today?"

Chapter 1

It took a concerted effort to look this good. She had allowed ample time for the preparations, but even with all of the time in the world, she could sabotage her own efforts. With an unsteady hand at the lips or eyelashes, she might suffer a setback and today was hardly a day when she could afford one of those.

She had fostered a keen sense of concentration over the years, but this was different. Her mother was torturing her hair into cooperative ringlets, her hand was trembling with adrenaline and her younger sister was pestering her with questions.

"When was the last time you saw him, Mne?" Valeria demanded.

"A month after Father's appointment," Amne Selrieen reported dutifully as she considered the eyepaints available. "You recall. He came to visit at the Spring Equinox festival."

"But that was _forever_ ago!"

Amne supposed that, to an eleven-year-old, four months was "forever ago."

"How do you know you still like him?" Valeria asked, sprawling on Amne's bed with her chin propped on her elbows.

This was a variation of her original objection, voiced to her mother when she was a year younger and more naïve. Valeria could be forgiven for it, since she was half Amne's age and of a much more whimsical temperament.

Vali had also never heard Mother's lecture on the reasons that courtship had nothing to do with love. Taia willing, Vali would never need to.

"I have high regard for him," she said honestly, "and he is a very kind man."

"And he's proved himself worthy of any person's respect," Mother added.

"And you sound like you're one of his political campaigns," Vali muttered. "I don't think you love him at all."

Usually, this was when Mother stepped in to explain the ambiguous meaning of the word 'love' or to change topics before Amne could decide that love mattered a great deal. Twenty-two years of being her mother's daughter had broken her of the habit, but Mother still tended to worry.

Instead, this time, she remained silent, clearly anticipating that Amne would recite the familiar lecture on her behalf. Amne set down her jar of eyepaint and turned her narrow chin as much as she could without disturbing Mother's work.

"I care for him and I believe in his principles," she said quietly, reaching for her only sister's hand. "I believe that it will become love someday."

"Fine," Vali sulked. "Marry him _then._"

"Valeria!" Mother said sharply.

Valeria did not look apologetic at the sharp retort, but stood and yanked her hand out of her sister's grasp. "I have to get changed," she said petulantly.

"Yes, _miya_," Mother sighed. "The ivory one that Ilse laid out for you."

A moment later, Vali had escaped to her room, leaving Amne alone with her Mother and a few dozen hair fastenings. The woman was still trying to pin her curls up into an elegant coif rather than letting them tumble loose as was Amne's habit. She glanced up to admire her work and instead found Amne meeting her gaze with a slightly wry smile.

"Sometimes I miss the days when I was young enough to be your _miya_," Amne confessed.

At that, Mother finally smiled and the woman who had raised her was once more recognizable under the mask of tension that she had worn for the last few years. She bent in mid-work, kissing the crown of Amne's head gently as if she were _miya_—my little one.

"As do I," she murmured.

She straightened, going back to pinning as Amne dusted her freckled cheekbones with a light layer of powder. There was a change, though. Mother was not as perfunctory and intense as she had been a few moments ago and preened as if she were grooming a favorite doll.

"He'll be pleased with you," she said quietly. "No man could think otherwise of my daughter."

"I hope so," Amne said in like tones. "I believe he is a good man and do not wish to displease him."

Mother's hands, finally finished with the tedious work of styling her daughter's hair, rested instead on the younger woman's shoulders.

"I may have spoken too strictly," Mother apologized, meeting her gaze in the mirror again. "I wish you to marry him because he is a good man and he will give you a good life, but I want you to find your own reasons for being happy at his side."

"As you did," Amne observed.

"Yes," Mother confirmed. "It was quite easy for me to fall in love with the man that my father had chosen. I did not wish an arrangement for you, but…"

"I know," Amne said. "It's not so much an arrangement as suggesting a mutually beneficial agreement."

Mother grimaced in a heartfelt manner. "Yes, if you want to think like your merchant father," she sniffed.

"Father means well, even if he sometimes thinks of me as a valuable collector's item," Amne teased.

"Well," Mother mused, "you are that as well."

She felt heat rise in her cheeks and she glanced down, busying herself with searching through her jewelry box for a suitable pair of earrings. Finally, she found teardrop pearl earrings that Father had given her upon graduating from the Academy and settled them in her earlobes.

"Do you really think marriage will come up tonight?" she asked nervously.

"Not if you don't want it to," Mother assured her. "I'll make sure of that."

Without further comment, Mother stepped away, moving to the wardrobe where her gowns were kept. She returned in a moment with the one they had chosen by mutual consent the night before. A deep blue, it was elegant enough to befit her station, but short enough that the newly-minted Ambassador's daughter would not make a fool of herself. It was the same color that she had often seen on members of the Senate and Mother had suggested it because her suitor would admire how well she suited power.

Amne preferred the gown because it was simply designed and not too low-cut or tight-clinging to embarrass her. It was also made of a heavy velvet, perfect for the winter storms that had been assaulting Crevasse City for the last four days.

Amne carefully stepped into the dress and let Mother tightly lace up the back. Her reflection in the mirror suggested that she was calm and composed and elegantly dressed. In truth, one out of three wasn't bad.

"Perfect," Mother murmured in her ear as she settled a strand of pearls in Amne's hair.

Before Amne could respond, there was a knock on the door. She sighed, pulling back and smoothing the skirt of her dress.

"Come in."

Anselim, her father's manservant entered and bowed slightly. "Milady," he addressed her, "Senator Palpatine is awaiting your convenience."


	2. Chapter 2

Amne had first met Cos Palpatine when she was still young enough to be going through the 'awkward phase' that had lasted much longer than her friends'. He had already made for a name for himself in Republic politics as a negotiator with what one holoshill described as a "manner so blunt that it might as well be a duracrete wall." Her father, a Naboo by birth, an Alderaanian by choice and a nomadic merchant by trade, had taken a liking to the man who was unafraid to bluntly get the right thing done.

For her part, Amne had been somewhat in awe of the man. In spite of the fact that he was nearly thirty years her senior, he was nonetheless a captivating and accessible man who treated all of those in her household with respect. It was not to say that he dealt with Vali other than to endure her perpetually sticky fingers and to avoid stepping on her, but unlike many of Father's guests, he was kind to her.

What struck Amne most about Palpatine was that he was one of the first adults to treat her as an equal from the start. She had been barely fifteen and stammered over the discussion of her government classes at the Academy, but he had patiently and attentively listened to every word that she said. Unlike her father, who was somewhat exasperated by his daughter's timid nature around strangers, the Senator did not interrupt her or dismiss her observations out of hand.

By the end of the night, her nervousness had evaporated and the awe had remained. Perhaps it had been an adolescent fascination at first, but it had remained with her until the next time that Palpatine visited on her sixteenth birthday.  
He was one of the few men who had taken notice of her before her mandatory transformation from merchant's daughter to ambassador's heir. Unlike the other men, he treated her no differently than before she had become minor nobility. It was not because he had no respect for her now, but because he had always treated her with respect regardless of her station in life.

Tonight, she could not have been less like the young girl he had met seven years ago. She had first met him after clambering down the stairs in grass-stained slacks and a carelessly baggy tunic, her hair pulled back severely from her face simply because she did not want to be bothered by it. She had been thin enough, not because she worked at it but because she usually forgot any meal other than dinner. Even then, she would usually spend token time eating a few things and then return as quickly as possible to her room and her readerchips. By contrast, he was the seemingly aloof politician who came to dinner in formal robes and looked as though he had forgotten the word of the meaning humor. 

Their friendship had become less formal when she had been accepted to the University of the Republic, situated a short distance by Coruscant standards from the Naboo Consulate where he kept his apartment. She had assumed at first that he had continued their association on the prompting of her overprotective father, but instead, he had become a kind of sponsor for her until she completed her degree in Education.

Admittedly, she had not improved much in those years. She still loathed the need to dress formally and could be found on most mornings wearing something that was appropriate for class, but not for a dinner at the Consulate. He often ignored that tendency, insisting that she let her father's homeworld take care of her for an evening.

It had gradually become more difficult to distinguish the line between her father's friend and her own kindred spirit. Instead of letting him take on a paternally solicitous role, she had learned to seek him out instead. While it had taken an Ambassadorial appointment to change her daily wardrobe patterns, it had taken four years of university to build an unusual and lasting respect for the man that she had respected out of instinct at first.

Tonight, her manicured hand was light on the staircase's banister as she descended, back straight and a delicate smile on her face. It was her 'diplomat face' and as a rule, she was not permitted to abandon it until her companion showed forth some stronger emotion. As expected, he was not waiting for her at the base of the stairs—a Senator of the Republic waited for no man—but she could hear the murmur of voices from her father's study. She approached the door with measured steps.

She had forgotten her mother's presence until Mother's hand brushed against her left shoulder blade. She moved past Amne and opened the door as if Amne herself were an honored guest in the house.

"Ah, and here we are," Father pronounced with a slightly amused tone. "Amne, my dear, you look lovely."

Amne stepped through the heavy tsik-wood door and Mother pulled it quietly shut behind her. Immediately, Senator Palpatine stood with equal parts grace and respect and bowed his head to her. She sank a few centimeters in a courtesy, deep enough to show respect, but not enough to show deference.

_"You are likely to be his wife," Mother had said. "You must be his equal, but until you are, you must act the part, nothing more."_

"I hope I did not keep you waiting long," she said genuinely.

"Not at all," Senator Palpatine said genially, approaching to take her hand and brush it cordially with his lips. "You have an exquisite sense of timing, as always."

A year ago, this might have made her turn an unflattering shade of crimson or drawn out the stuttering side of her dialect. Today, she felt her cheeks warm prettily, but she retained her composure.

"Did your travels go well?" she asked.

"As well as could be expected," he said with a slightly sour expression. "The weather made the approach slightly difficult, but it is, as always, worth the effort."

Father stood. "Your mother and I will be going to the concert early," he informed her. "We will see you there?" 

"We will come after dinner," Senator Palpatine promised. 

"Excellent," Father pronounced.

He bowed formally to the Senator , and then preceded them from the room. Palpatine, ever the gentleman, offered his arm and escorted her from the room. 

They did not speak again until they had reached the balcony. Situated at the eastern end of the apartment they kept here, it provided a spectacular view both of the city built into Alderaan's deepest gorge as well as the night sky. The storms had been raging for the last four days, so the entire city looked to be carved from Corusca gems, but the temperature had climbed far enough in the last day that they were able to dine comfortably out of doors. 

"Sometimes," Palpatine said quietly, "I think I enjoyed life more when there were fewer formalities."

"I would not have guessed," Amne responded, her smile turning teasing. "I don't think I've known you when you _weren't_ formal."

Father would have chastised her for speaking so frankly, but Palpatine finally let his smile broaden into something closer to a grin and she knew that she had his leave to act more naturally. She let her smile match his, but did not speak again until Erma, the cook, had brought the food.

"Thank you," he addressed her.

Erma dipped in a courtesy, and then left as quickly as she could after sending a single, sly look in Amne's direction.

"I rather think she wanted us to be alone," Amne laughed.

"Is she the one with six children?" he asked.

It was a testament to the frequency of his visits that the man who could not remember the name of his bodyguards could remember the details of her servants' lives. She also expected that Erma was one of the many people in the Galaxy who would use the details of her family to drive a point home and one of the few who could actually use said details to argue with a Senator of the Republic.

"She is," Amne agreed, "and she seems to be the only one in this household who actually remembers the laws of courtship."

"Which are?" he asked, smile turning wry. 

She had, in her younger days, compiled a list that were half-serious and half-whimsical. They ranged from 'Don't let your parents choose him' to 'Don't marry anyone who likes Bucky and the Starboys.' The 'laws' were more of a work in progress than anything else.

"Why don't you tell me?" she rejoined, reaching for her knife and fork.

He took a sip of the green wine, and then glanced out across the expanse of the gorge as if to check that no one was listening in. "My father told me something once," he explained. "It was when I had just been made a Senatorial aide and was about to begin a long life of association with the extremely powerful. He said, 'Court the noble in spirit as you would a beautiful woman for you may someday want them to lead you. Court a beautiful woman as you would a noble spirit, because more often than not she will be one and you will one day want her to guide your children.'"

He looked down, contemplating his wine in silence as his smile vanished. She immediately set down her knife and fork, sensing that this was no time for distraction. Almost involuntarily, she reached for her own wine glass and let the searing liquid energize her. It was not until she replaced the wine glass that he spoke again.

"When I was a younger man, I knew one beautiful, noble spirit," he stated. "Cyrah never acknowledged her own nobility or just how strong she was, but it was self-evident. I lost her after far too short a time and it seemed to me that I would never know another like her."

"I'm sorry," Amne said, her voice almost a whisper.

He swallowed hard in acknowledgment of the emotion, but was silent for a long moment more. At last, he reached a hand across to clasp hers. She was surprised to find that both their hands were trembling. After a moment, the trembling stopped and his smile returned more cautiously.

"Amne," he said firmly, "I have spent a great deal of time waiting to find someone who would share those same qualities and yet be something more. Over the past seven years, I have come to suspect that you are a noble spirit. I have no doubt that, in time, you will prove my suspicions to be immeasurably correct."

"I hope that I one day will," she responded.

Her voice was surprisingly steady, since she felt as though every part of her body were aquiver. He seemed to sense this nervousness and tightened his grip just momentarily.

"I am a man of strong principles and firmly-held ideals," he told her. "I aspire to great things and I have realized for many years now that I need the influence of a great woman.

"I look into my own future and I see many things that I intend to effect," he said, his voice low and respectful. "What I desire most is to see you at my side."

Her throat constricted so that she could not even respond to that. He took her silence to be an invitation to continue and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. Without fanfare or pretention, he extended an ornate ring.

"Amne," he said quietly, "will you do me the honor of standing by me as my wife?" She remembered only a few details of the rest of the night. They had arrived amid a flurry of activity, since Naboo senators did not typically attend Alderaanian events, but no one seemed to question the fact that they were together once more. Cos—it was ridiculous to think of her fiancé as Senator or Palpatine or anything so impersonal—had kept her protectively within arm's reach and smiled genially at the holoshills who were taking holos of the event. 

Her parents had met them at the seats only a few moments before the concert began, so she had not been able to make a report. She had, however, rested her bejeweled hand, decorated with a Crevasse-mined opal set between two heart-shaped Coruscas on a gold band, on top of Mother's at one point during the first concerto. That had caused her mother to beam furtively at her throughout the concert and her father to look extremely pleased with himself as if he had arranged the whole thing.

Cos had left her at the door with a goodnight kiss and the warning that she would have to maintain a thick skin once the word got out. She had smiled and murmured something about it being worth the effort.

She awoke the following morning with the midwinter sunlight filtering through the window and a dull throbbing in her head. It was a common aftereffect of an adrenaline rush, but this morning, it seemed to be worse than usual.

Eventually, she recognized that the pounding on the door might have something to do with it. She rolled over, pulling her hair out of her eyes, and called a half-coherent invitation towards the door.

Mother entered quickly, not even bothering to look as if she were calm and composed. "Oh, good," she said breathlessly, "you're awake."

"What's going on?" Amne asked blearily.

"Well," Mother said frankly, "Cos is being called back to Coruscant on rather urgent business. I persuaded him to stay long enough for breakfast, but I thought that you might want to be in attendance."

"I'll be down in five minutes," Amne promised, throwing the covers back.

She arrived at the breakfast table four and a half minutes later, after having wrenched her sleep-tangled hair into a simple braid and washed the weariness from her features. Cos stood as she entered and clasped her hands before drawing her in for a kiss to the cheek. She allowed him to help her into her chair and greeted her parents before turning her attention to what had brought her downstairs at dawn in the first place.

"I protested against the need to disturb you," he informed her.

"No disturbance," she insisted. "What calls you back to Coruscant?"

His affectionate smile shrank, but did not disappear entirely. "The Trade Federation," he said grimly. "The Senate has been increasing tariffs in our sector and there was a formal complaint lodged, directly accusing Naboo of unseemly merchant behavior, this morning."

"They'll need you, then," she agreed.

Cos nodded. "I may be able to forestall the crisis altogether, but if not, I shall have to perform the political equivalent of damage control instead."

"You will return to us soon, though?" she asked.

"As soon as I can," he assured her.

He raised her left hand to his lips and finally smiled again as he kissed the knuckle beneath her ring. "Until then," he suggested, "I hope you will decide on a wedding date."


End file.
